


bodyache

by AnonymousPumpkin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, F/F, Grief/Mourning, I mean technically this is one of my quizzies, POV Second Person, but i suppose you could imagine any mage with a lady love named siraya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:44:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name is Siraya. She has blue eyes and pale hair and a smile that lights up her entire face. You are young and dutiful and you feel too strongly. A story of love, loss, and despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bodyache

_ Turn the lights down, I wanna be alone // I wanna know what’s your quietest feeling _

Her name is Siraya. She has blue eyes and pale hair and a smile that lights up her entire face. There is a tiny nook between two bookshelves where the light is dim and the templars rarely think to look, and that’s where you meet, sneaking away from your duties at odd hours of the day or night. You learn to memorize her face in darkness, to see how beautiful she is without seeing her clearly. You learn to map her body with your fingertips, knowing her intimately through touch. She is warm against your always-chilled skin and her lips are soft on your cracked mouth. When she kisses you, she laces your fingers together and squeezes like you are the only thing in the world worth holding onto. Her eyes shine in the darkness, and in them you can see the love you feel reflected in her heart. You are not one for singing and dancing, but you feel as if there is no other way to express your joy. Sometimes you sway in place in your secret place as she hums a tune you know in your heart ends in sorrow and tragedy. Even if the templars caught you, even if they did horrible things to you, to both of you, you wouldn’t give this up. The feeling of being in her arms, of being cherished, of being accepted as you are...it is priceless and it is precious. She is precious.

You live for those stolen moments in the dark. You feel like you would endure any hurt, can brave any danger in the world, so long as she is waiting for you at the end of it all. You begin to dream of a life you know you can’t have, just the two of you and a dog and a big garden with all her favorite flowers. You dream of a life where your love is not hidden away in dark corners and shoved guiltily out of sight as if it is not the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to you. Strangely enough, that longing disappears when you are with her. When you are alone you wish for more; you know that you both deserve more, but when you are together, you can’t think of anything else you could possibly want or need more in world than her.

You see her outside of your rendezvous, of course. It’s hard to avoid each other when you are both restricted to the same building. She spends her time in the library most days, reading books about the histories of great lost kingdoms. You help Master Lars with the children, teaching them to contain and control themselves. You love your work as fiercely as you love her, though it is much more bittersweet affair. The children look up at you with eyes full of trust and fear and eagerness, and you remember when you came here, crying and screaming and kicking. You cannot help but feel like you are  grooming them for something terrible.

When the curriculum permits, you bring the children to the library, which is always half an excuse just to see her. You let the kids run wild, occasionally stepping in to wrangle some of the louder ones or help them get a  book from really high up. You spend a great deal of the time with her, talking about nothing at all. You never try for more than casual touches here, where people can see. The two of you sit for hours at a table, forgotten books lying open in front of you, a ready-made excuse if anyone leans too close and looks too hard. Your ankles tangle together under the table. She grabs your arm when you turn to go and smiles when she bids you farewell. _Tonight_ , her eyes will say, and she knows that no matter what, your answer will always be _yes_.

You think your master knows about you two, but he says nothing. When you return from the library a little brighter than when you entered, he just asks how the children are, which books they read, if they will be ready for tomorrow’s lesson. You bow your head and tell him everything he wants to hear.

Her name is Siraya. She has blue eyes and pale hair, and you Love her with all of your heart.

_You sweat and you bled // And you feared a lonely death_

You do not know which of you is more afraid. Tears salt her kisses and her fingers shake as they lace with yours. Normally she is so gentle, but now she clings to you roughly, fingers digging into the backs of your hands. You see fear in her eyes tainting the love. You kiss the corners of her eyes, carefully wipe away the trails on her cheeks, hold her until the shaking stops. You are strong for her, but only just. Your heart is a dead weight in your chest, scarcely brave enough to beat. You feel burning stones in your gut, hot fear that makes it difficult to concentrate and be brave. You have to be brave. You have to be brave for her. You don’t cry, not while she’s around.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, but your voice shakes and she knows it is not a promise. You kiss her, and you crash together as if you will surely die if you don’t. Her fingers grip you so tightly that you bruise, nails digging into your too-delicate skin. If she clings tight enough now, she’ll come back to your surely. In between kisses, you whisper to her. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll come back to me. You’ll be fine. ” You say it again and again and again, even when she is not around to hear. Master Lars starts to get suspicious of your muttering and of the dark circles around your eyes. He begins to ask you about your dreams. He fears that demons are whispering too loud in your ear. You would not be the first apprentice he has lost to possession. You soothe his fears, assure him it is nothing you can’t handle. It is better that he asks than the templars. You want to keep her confidence, and you will defend her until your death, but you trust Master Lars with your life and you tell him half of the truth: you are worried about a dear friend, you tell him. She is going on her Harrowing, and you can’t help but worry.

His eyes are sad and sympathetic. If there is one thing everyone in the Circle can understand, it is this. He pats your shoulder the way he did when you were still an angry child with fire in her mouth and venom in her eyes. “All will be well, child,” he tells you. “Have faith.”

You try to have faith, to have hope. You kiss her as if the world is ending. You pray as if the Maker will hear you. You even pray to _her_ gods, every single one of them, even the ones whose names you don’t know. You know of almost every pantheon in Thedas’s history, and in your desperation you pray to them all. Surely your prayers won’t go unheeded. Surely _someone_ will answer you. Surely they will. She will come back to you.

You are so on edge that every tiny thing has you on the verge of hysterical tears. Mast Lars lets you have the week off, and you spend all your time in the library or in your bed. At night you battle nightmares and demons coming to prey on your terror, struggling to hold your own against creatures that know you so intimately. During the day you sit with her in the library. You don’t have the time or inclination to sneak away, neither of you. She looks pale and green, and you feel sick. You realize every day with her could be your very last. You try not to think about it, but your thoughts are insidious and cruel. You cannot help  yourself. You reach across the table and take her hand, squeezing so tight that your knuckles ache. You don’t care who sees, who talks, who thinks this isn’t to be.

When they come for her, she starts crying. The templars they sent are kinder, gentler than the ones who took you, and you hope that is a sign that the gods heard you. They give her a moment to compose herself, trying to keep the pity from their faces. They wait for you to calm her down, to assure her. As she gets up, you squeeze her hand. You try to anchor her, to tie yourself so tightly around her fingers that she has to come back to you.

“You’ll be fine,” you say one more time. You smile for her and you force yourself to have Hope.

_I lied, now I’m lying awake // I cried until my body ache_

Siraya doesn’t return from her Harrowing. The entire Circle is sombre, as they always are when a young mage is lost, and the halls are silent save for your sobbing. With every passing moment, you hurt more and the more you hurt the more you cry. The grief is an ache in your bones, a knife in your chest, ice in your veins. It feels like a mountain on your body, pressing you tight against your bed. You cannot bring yourself to even sit up, knowing that even if you do, she will still be gone. You torment yourself wondering how it happened, whether the templars made her death quick or whether it was the demon that took her life. Even the thought that she may have died painlessly is no consolation...she is dead. You loved her with all of your heart and she is dead.

At first, your roommates attempt to console you. They are awkward and uncertain in their efforts, but they put forth the effort nonetheless. Then they get annoyed and they try to bully you out of bed. After the first few failed attempts they realize that you are a lost cause, not worth the energy or the breath, and they leave you alone. For a little while, you are quiet and they are pleased with you. When you start crying again, they roll their eyes and turn away. You’re only inviting trouble, they tell you. You’re asking to get locked up. You’re asking to get put down.

They don’t understand. You envy them. They have mastered the art of closing their hearts, of keeping their love closely guarded and their affections sparse and fleeting. They have not allowed themselves to love so deeply, to hope so wildly for something better, only to have it snatched away. You have always been a dutiful girl, an obedient girl, save for in this. You never could cut yourself off. Your heart never learned to be cold and reserved and restrained. You have always felt everything too strongly, you have always loved too freely and hated too fiercely. You envy them and you hate them and you miss her so much.

You return to your duties after a period of time you cannot name. Master Lars says nothing at first beyond that he is glad to see you upright. The children are quiet; they may not fully understand, but they know something has happened. They know that the pretty elf in the library isn’t there any longer. They know that Mistress Rey is crying as she works and that she will not stop any time soon. You try and stop for them, to keep your head up for them. You love the children, you really do. You throw yourself into your work. You teach the children all day, helping them master themselves and the gifts they were given, and at night you help Master Lars in his neverending fight against untidiness and disorganization in the Circle. You hardly sleep anymore, alphabetizing and organizing and teaching and cleaning. The work doesn’t make it hurt any less, but you have always been dutiful to a fault, and you feel a little bit less pathetic when you are working. On the days you are not working yourself to death, you are in bed crying (you’ve learned to be much quieter now; you know that no one wants to hear you...and no one wants the templars to hear you, either).

Everyone is gentler around you at first, until the hurt heals for them and they move on with their lives as normal. They begin to eye you suspiciously when a month passes and you are crying still. They know. You don’t care any longer. Let them punish you, let them berate you, let them pity or be disgusted with you. You see her blue eyes in one of the librarians, her pale hair in the templar that sometimes sneaks you sweet cakes from the kitchen. You see her spirit in the elven girl who is brought to you in chains from an Alienage. A few of your peers go through their Harrowings mere days after she does. You hate the ones that pass, and you hate yourself for it.

Another month passes, two, three. You think you are doing well to handle your grief, but evidently no one else does. Your colleagues still slide away when you come near, the templars still give you warning glares when you find yourself staring off into space. Master Lars pulls you aside and he is not kind to you. He looks into your eyes and he sees the still-raw grief in your heart, and he is cruel to you. His grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise, nails digging into your too-delicate skin. He talks to you for what feels like hours, and it is nothing that you have not heard before. You have always been too emotional, too free with yourself, and he has always been there to call you a fool, a soft-hearted child. He has always lectured you on the dangers of demons and on the importance of keeping your heart and mind well guarded. You would’ve thought that after all this time, he would’ve given up on you. You are an abomination waiting to happen, an hourglass that has been running since the day you froze your bath water. But he never has given up on you, and he never has stopped lecturing, and you suppose that he never will.

“I understand that you hurt, child,” he says. “And I sympathize. I do.” He rans his hands through his hair, shakes his head. His face is cool, though his tone is not. “You of all people cannot afford this, not now of all times. ” At your confusion, he sighs, relaxes the slightest bit. “You are my best student, and you are older than she was,” he reminds you. “You are older than she was, and you are more advanced than she was. You are the strongest mage I have had the privilege to teach. How much longer do you think they will wait for _your_ Harrowing? The only reason you have not already undertaken it is because the Knight-Commander is being kind. She understands you are grieving. But you cannot grieve forever.” He frowns, and it makes him look more severe, like a man carved from stone. “You are from a proud family, Rey.” He uses your name carefully, cautiously. “You are a powerful mage, a strong woman. We cannot lose you.”

You want to shrink away from him. You want to cry, from shame, from grief. You want to give yourself wholly to Despair. It would be easier than living on, you suppose. Better a demon’s plaything than a broken-hearted mage, surely. But you are dutiful to a fault, and you nod. You try to school your features, to wipe away the evidence of your tears, of your exhaustion. You know you fail, but Lars’s face relaxes into a hesitant smile.

“It will hurt,” he says, “but you must let her go. You must forget.”

You nod, because you are dutiful to a fault.

Two months later, you go on your Harrowing. The demon takes the form of an elven woman named Siraya, with blue eyes and pale hair. Love is on her lips and she takes your hand, gripping your fingers tightly. She opens herself to you, smile soft and inviting, and you strike her down. When you emerge from the Fade, eyes dry and mouth in a hard line, you are a crying girl no longer. The pain in your body is faded to a dull ache, the wildfire in your heart now no more than dying embers. You have faced Despair and you have faced Desire and you have triumphed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at like...four in the goddamn morning, listening to Bodyache on repeat. A look into one of my Inquisitor's pasts, or perhaps just the past of some random ass mage named Rey. Who knows.


End file.
